The Secret of Silence
by RevolutionaryPhantom
Summary: Jim Kirk moves into apartment 12c, only to discover that the previous owner never left. Ghost!Spock. Ghost!Sulu.


When Jim buys the apartment, it's falling to pieces. The landlady says it was partially destroyed in a fire a couple of years ago. When Jim asks why it wasn't fixed, she crosses herself and closes the door. So he goes to the neighbors. He knocks on Gaila's door first. She's a gossip at heart, but refuses to say a word. "Not from me, Jimbo," she says, and then smiles flirtatiously and invites him in. In the course of one evening, she treats him to every scrap of gossip about the building that she can scrape up—except about apartment 12c. Uhura's even worse. She opens the door only enough to glare before slamming it in his face.

"Please?" he begs. "Just five minutes!"

"Get lost!" she shouts, and then something colorful in another language—several, by the sound of it, one of them Russian.

Speaking of Russia, Jim tries the Russian neighbor upstairs. Pavel Chekov answers the door wrapped in a blanket and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What do you want?" he demands. Jim smiles winningly at him.

"Can I ask you a few questions?" he asks, one hand reaching for the door. Chekov stares at him blearily.

"You serious?" he snorts. Jim nods.

"As a heart attack."

Chekov clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "_Da,"_ He agrees. "Come in. Come in." He sits Jim down on a worn blue couch. "Tea?" he offers.

"Ah- No. Thanks."

Chekov hums. "Cookie?"

"No. Look, Chirpov—"

"Chekov."

"Chekov, what's up with 12c?"

Chekov shrugs. "Is just a story," he says. "Pay no attention." He doesn't sound concerned. "I hear things, too. Is nothing to worry about."

"What sort of things?" Jim asks.

"Well…" Chekov pauses, thinking. "Someone died there."

"Really?"

"Da. Was big deal a couple of years ago. Big fire." Chekov shudders. "Wasn't good for business."

"Who died?" Jim asks. Chekov shakes his head.

"I don't know," he says, tone clipped and serious. "I didn't ask." His long, nervous fingers played with the frayed corner of his blanket, and he ran his hand through his curly hair. "You want tea? No? Da, da, da. Okay. Time for you to go."

Jim doesn't sleep well that night. He makes himself a cup of coffee and waits until twelve to start studying for his physics exam, then studies until the words blur and swim on the page. Hours pass in this manner, and when he finally looks up from the textbook, it's five in the morning. "Shit," he swears. He stands up shakily, blinking his stinging, dry eyes. Something dances in his periphery, and when he turns, he's met with a blaze of fire that sends him staggering back. His knees hit the chair, unbalancing him and sending him toppling ass over teakettle. He vaguely registers someone screaming. He thinks it might be him, only he's never screamed like that in his life. There's a sharp pain in his knees, and in his tailbone where it hit the floor, and he lies there for a moment, shaking, knowing that he should probably leave before the fire gets worse—or maybe he should try to put it out. But when he finally musters up the courage to look, there is no fire.

"Huh," he vocalizes. It's a habit of his, talking out loud, and now it grounds him just a little bit more. "Odd." He gives the kitchen—where the fire had been—a quizzical stare. There's nothing. There isn't even any smoke, no evidence of the blaze. Jim sits up. "Embarrassing," he mutters, and then, "understatement of the century," and then, "Bones."

Leonard-Bones-McCoy laughs his ass off when Jim tells him. "You're dreaming," he snorts, wiping milk off of his chin. Jim takes another bite of his pancakes, licks the syrup off of his lips, and slams his fork on the table.

"I swear," he says. "I'm telling the truth. There was a fire!"

"How late were you up?" Bones asks. Jim's cheeks burn.

"Five," he admits.

"Sleep deprived," Bones sing-songs. "Honestly, Jim. I'd expect better from you." He checks his phone, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he does. "Gotta pick Jo-Jo up from basketball practice," he says. "Can we finish this discussion on the way?"

They don't, unsurprisingly, finish the discussion on the way. Instead, Bones regales Jim with tales of Johanna's athletic prowess. It's nice, because when he talks about his daughter, Bones lights up in a way Jim's never seen otherwise, but it's annoying, too, because Jim has other fish to fry—namely, the unexplained blaze in the kitchen. But Bones is having none of it, and then they pick up Jo-Jo, and she's not going to have it, either; she's her father's daughter through and through. So Jim shuts his mouth and tries to convince himself that Bones was right. It was just a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. He lets Jo-Jo swing from his arm and climb up onto walls, ignoring Bones' protests. After all, it's fun to be the 'cool uncle'.

Jim aces his physics test, wonder of all wonders, but he fails everything else. The rest of the week is spent chugging unhealthy amounts of coffee and trying to squeeze information out of the neighbors. Uhura slams the door every time she sees him. Chekov is mysteriously absent. Gaila invites Jim in every time she sees him, but nothing useful comes out of her mouth. She mostly drinks wine and flirts, which Jim almost appreciates, especially since she's exceptionally pretty.

"Who started the fire?" he asks once. Gaila laughs, like always, but the sound's a little forced.

"I don't know," she says. Leaning forward, she whispers, "I'm not paid to know." She probably thinks it makes her sound like a spy. Jim thinks it makes her sound tacky.

"Still," he says, "You must have heard rumors."

"No," Gaila insists. "We're not gossips around here."

Jim's not really sure what to say to that, so he opts for nothing, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands on the cool, wooden tabletop. "It's just a little odd," he presses. "With something like that, you'd think there'd be stories. _Ghost _stories, even."

Gaila pales. "Ghost stories," she repeats. Her shoulders bob up and down as she takes a deep breath. "Um…"

"Is there one?" Jim asks. Gaila's dark eyes dart sideways. She licks her lips, rubbing off some of her orangey lipstick.

"Yes," she breathes. "Maybe."

"Why won't anyone tell me?"

"Because…" Gaila shudders. "We knew the guy, Jim. The one who died."

"Oh." Suddenly, Jim feels like a jerk. "I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't know."

"His family did a lot to hush it up," Gaila confesses. "They said it was an accident."

"It wasn't?"

"No." She looks so small, sitting across the table from him. Her red, curly hair is falling out of its bun, framing her pale, sallow face. She looks so sad, and it's Jim's fault. "He was murdered."

"By who?"

"By _whom." _Gaila's lips twitch up as she corrects him. Then she draws into herself again. "His fiancé."

"His…wow."

Gaila nods. "It was terrible," she whispers. "The whole building was evacuated. Sulu…he lived here, too. He went back in, and neither of them came back."

"What was the other guy's name?"

"Spock. His name was Spock."


End file.
